


New Perspectives

by Port_of_Morrow



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Sexual Reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Port_of_Morrow/pseuds/Port_of_Morrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set over the span of one day, we delve into Q's mind and intense back story as the events of the day plan out. It started with Bond overhearing a conversation which leads to unconventional actions towards Q.</p><p>This story is a combination of backstory and live action: Q recounts on his time at Oxford, his life after Oxford, his previous relationships: both romantic and sexual, and old friends. </p><p>Part character study, part fluff, angst near the end- lots of feelsy stuff about Q's previous boyfriend and his time exploring who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tuesday was the birth of a new year in Secret Service.  
Of course it felt unusual to Q, who'd served only for 12 months, to be thrust from a long and embedded era in M16 history into a new one.  
A new HQ, a new M.... a new perspective, for some.  
The young quartermaster felt stranger, almost, whilst he sat waiting in the weaponry. He was surrounded not only by people who knew the old M and the old HQ far better than he, but also surrounded by weapons which had seen far more danger than he ever had.  
But still his head was kept sky high, as he waited for the new beginning.

With an unceremonious swing of the door, the new beginning entered the weaponry. Dressed in a graphite grey suit and polished black shoes, Bond shot the three other people in the room a smile; Moneypenny, M, and Tanner, before addressing Q directly.  
“Good morning, Quartermaster,” he spoke in his unbearably smooth London accent.  
“Good morning 007,” he replied, his high, airy voice hanging in the gaping square room that was the MI6 weaponry.  
M and Moneypenny were discussing something out of Q's earshot on the edge of the room, whilst Tanner tapped furiously into his iPhone.  
“I trust you've had a good break, agent,” Q said in his natural friendly manner, rising to his feet and walking with Bond to the personal lockers on the far side of the room.  
“Breaks are breaks, I'm back on action now,” Bond smiled, not viciously but with determination, and a certain breed of it which Q admired.  
“Well I'm glad to hear it,” Q spoke, unlocking the silver locker marked with Bond's agent code, and extracting three items from the cubicle: a hand pistol, a long range rifle and a throwing knife.  
“Interesting choice of weapon,” Bond said, gesturing towards the stiletto Q held gingerly in his hand.  
“Well Mr Bond, thanks to your interesting mode of taking down Silva, throwing knives are now protocol for all agents to carry for the foreseeable future,”  
Q felt as if he were speaking indignantly to Bond, so he quickly added, “You're quite a revolutionary Bond, it's admirable.”  
The agent said nothing, he simply gave a toothy grin before following Q through the narrow walkway to the shooting range, shortly followed by Mallory, Moneypenny and Tanner.

Within minutes it was evident that Bond hadn't lost an ounce of skill over his brief break, as he constantly penetrated the paper victims with key precision and confidence.  
M and Tanner had made their way back to the armoury, whilst Moneypenny and Q stood well away from Bond, watching the agent's performance, for he was so artistic, and it was clear that every shot gave Bond a new kind of energy after his leave; so the pair felt little need to stop a boy reminiscing with old toys.  
The two MI6 workers had become terribly close in Bond's absence; for what started as a professional relationship sorting papers and mission reports turned into a dear friendship; late nights joined only by a bottle of Merlot, and frequent trips to Q's favourite haunts around the city.

It had been on an excursion to Regent's Park that Q had spoken quite seriously; something one-in Q's opinion- should never be done with dear friends unless quite necessary, to Eve. But, alas, Q felt it was.

He was sat with Eve on the grassy bank near the open air theatre, the evening sun throwing shadows this way and that. They were a dashing pair; Q in a white cardigan and powder grey trousers, and Eve in a casual blue blouse which brought out the grey flecks in her eyes.  
The play happening that night, as Q had gathered from the theatre goers surrounding them, was something to do with ceasing to hide whom one loved, no matter the consequences, and how life had many a dangerous corner in store for those who dared to let their hearts love.  
Eve had breached the subject first, as the couple were lit by the setting sun and graciously sipped the champagne Q had supplied.

“Do you think you'll ever find love, Q?” she'd asked wistfully, the champagne flute dangling between her thin fingers.  
“Oh,” Q sighed, “I found it once, but alas it wasn't meant to be.”

“How upsetting,” Eve said sincerely.

“Oh no,” Q said dismissively, but quietly and with reminiscent feeling, “We were quite inseparable for some time at Oxford, I still remember every day so vividly,”

Eve was entranced, “For how long were you in love?”

“Oh, at times I think I still love him,” Q spoke, and then turned quite suddenly to Eve who smiled understandingly, before placing a hand by Q's.

“Go on,” she said, finally glad Q had been honest with her after all these months of ambiguity she was sure he found such a lark.

Q grinned whilst speaking quite whimsically,   
“His name was Conrad Mayhem-Hughes, from some pretentious family... he was reading History which at first I thought would make him terribly dull, but he quite pleasantly surprised me. We were sat in the library when he first told me he loved me. He'd quite bizarrely scribbled a note on the back of a book of matches.”   
Eve watched with adoration Q shook his head, a smile larger than his face stretching across it as she could almost see Q delve back into those days of love in his youth.   
And then he spoke, “All it said was, let's prove Somerset wrong, and by God, that was me taken. You see,” Q chuckled, “In my first year I had some sort of obsession with playwrights, one in particular was Somerset Maugham whose works I carried with me everywhere. Anyway, on the first page of the book I'd scribbled all the quotes which were close to my heart, and the fourth one on the list was, “The greatest tragedy of life is not that men perish, but that they cease to love.”  
“Conrad wanted to love me forever, little me... it simply wasn't a request any young, hot blooded man like me could've refused.  
“And so I suppose we did prove him wrong, I still do. I've never ceased to love... I think that's a terrible fault amongst the kind of men to which I belong.. we fall so horribly quickly because it's dissaproved, (well maybe not in the East End but in our social circles definitely) and everyone knows that a forbidden love is positively more attractive than a socially acceptable one, and if they don't then they should.”  
“Hell,” Q waved a hand at nothing in particular, “When I stayed with my cousin and his friends in Bloomsbury we fell in love every day- not with each other of course,” He sighed, “Every man who delivered our morning post or drove us to the town each night, why, we couldn’t help but imagine them sprawled out on our beds, crying out for us to love them. Mind you, we did that enough times.”   
And Q cheekily raised an eyebrow, eliciting an airy laugh from Eve, “After Conrad left for Scotland, leaving our wrecked affair behind, I had my way with every boy in London, practically. I needed it,” Q added casually, “I'd discovered the kind of man I was at Oxford, thanks to Conrad, so just because the bastard left me, didn't mean I had to suppress myself. Hell! On the contrary: him leaving gave me such a liberty. After my first few nights with London boys I realised what a stale man Conrad really was. I mean, because he was the first man who I'd had, I'd nothing to compare him to... but God,” Q gasped, “London boys were so terribly different to those in Oxford. The men here were young, playful little animals who'd have their way with you seven different ways before sunrise, before having a steaming cup of tea and leaving you with nothing but a kiss on the cheek.”  
“Q,” Eve flushed, “Your private life really is quite different to how I imagined,”  
“Oh don't be a fool Eve,” Q laughed, “I couldn't possibly still live like that! No...” he trailed off, “I live a much quieter life now, which is beneficial really because that was a young man's game and now I have a job you know? I mean, that was five years ago, I was naiive and in the delusion that having a boy in-between your sheets all night was the same as being in love... but now I actually love men, or well, a man, instead of meaningless affairs which did nought more than serve some purpose I needed, satisfy a short-lasting need. It's apparent now, though, that my needs go a little deeper than that.”  
Eve was quite breathless hearing Q speak this way, for she'd never heard anyone speak so honestly about love- a subject which nearly everyone lied pathologically about in England. “Love... still Conrad you mean?”  
“Oh Eve, sometimes I tell myself that the tension in my heart is because of him, but it's clear it's not. No... it's a kind of tension that comes with unrequited love. Some boys in Bloomsbury did it, you know, loving men who weren't of our kind. And it always ended in heartbreak. My cousin Oliver spent every night in Bloomsbury with a different boy, often two, up in his room having the wildest nights of his youth- God, how handsome they all were. And then he met our neighbour's son, a fiery young Irish boy called Samuel, and of course Oliver was distraught when he found out Samuel was married with a child... oh no... loving men who won't love you back is a terrible thing, but I seem to have found myself there Eve.”  
The young woman leant forwards and embraced Q, as he ran his fingers through the loose tendrils of her hair, before leaning right back on the wretched green lawn which was too inviting to Q. Why should earth be so accepting and inviting when people were not? It was God's greatest sin, Q thought, making his earth kinder than men could ever be.  
Eve leant down with him, the couple gazing up at nothing whilst their surrounding people discussed nothing and inside felt everything.  
“I fear I'll never recover, I've never loved a man like...” Q swallowed, making the decision that to say his love's name wasn't to change anything, it wasn't to make the uninterested man wake up and realise the beauty of what he could be, it wasn't to out his love to that man- for he was confident with Eve's closure.  
“Like Bond,” Q exhaled deeply,  
“God, Q, surely not?” Eve said with true sadness, for even as the young man spoke Eve harboured some kind of hope that the man might love Q back- but alas Bond could not, she was certain.  
The young quartermaster rolled on his side to face Eve, “I don't know what to do, darling. I simply can't stop thinking about him- he's been my every thought since I met him last year and I've missed him horribly this summer, seeing him in the way the clouds move and the way the sheets move over my bed at night.”  
Silence hung between them, before Eve placed a hand on Q's side, and it rose and fell to the rhythm of his breathing.  
Q continued, “It's a horribly dangerous thing I'm doing Eve, but I've found myself in the predicament that either I love James too deeply to put myself out of danger, or I'm addicted to danger too much to stop loving James. And for the life of me I can't figure out which.”

And that was how Q had spoken seriously to Eve, and whether it had strengthened their relationship, he didn't know, but the quartermaster felt even more endangered as he was aware how much time the lady spent with 007, sorting out field notes and debriefs and that.  
Bond was seeming quite exhausted at the firing range; he'd taken down an army of paper victims and finally before stepping away from the range, he picked up the throwing dagger and threw it with deadly accuracy- thunk- right into the heart of the last paper victim.  
“I hope that was satisfactory,” Bond smiled, before bending into a mock bow, and then gently collecting the three weapons. He handed them back to Q  
“Oh you were,” Q said with a coy grin back. Eve kicked his ankle from behind.  
Eve had really hoped that Q would be able to contain himself around Bond this year; having found out over the summer that he was hopelessly infatuated with the agent.  
As Bond made his way back to the armoury, Q and Moneypenny followed close behind. Once they reached the narrow passageway, Eve grippd the young man's arm and span him around.

“I swear to god Q,” she said sternly, more sternly than most would to a man holding two guns and a knife, “Your summer crush ends here, Bond's not the kind of man you want him to be,”

“Oh god I really want him...” Q whined quietly

Eve sighed, she hated being so blunt to her best friend but it was sometimes fearfully necessary, “Look, Q, Bond isn't Conrad- he's no replacement for the one boyfriend you had five years ago... he's certainly no replacement for Bloomsbury...” And she noticed Q flush red at the mention of that place, “God... look,” she readjusted herself, “I know he's an attractive man... okay he's probably the handsomest agent in M16,”  
“Oh don't remind me,” Q cried,  
“But you actually need to bloody control yourself Q.” And that was the last word she said, before she turned and hurried down the narrow walkway. 

Q exhaled slowly and thought upon Eve's words. He didn't for long though, as he then slowly composed himself and returned to the weaponry. Eve was just leaving as he entered, and Q didn't make eye contact with Bond- as he stepped over to the lockers to secure the gear.  
The blonde agent walked over to Q, “I suppose you've a lot of paperwork to do now...”  
“Oh you wouldn't believe it,”  
“How long will it all take you?”  
Q glanced at him suspiciously, “An hour or two... why?”  
“Okay,” Bond glanced at his watch, “I'll pick you up at eight,” he murmured with a hint of charm before nodding and making his way out of the weaponry doors.


	2. Chapter 2

“Eve! I need you!” Q cried in desperation as he burst into the secretary's office.  
“Quartermaster,” Mallory spoke slowly and disapprovingly, as he looked up from his meeting with Moneypenny, “Is there some sort of life-or-death situation which cannot wait?” 

Q genuinely wondered if it was possible for M to speak without his words dripping with sarcasm. He thought quickly, “Er, it's regarding 007,” he chirped.

Mallory sighed, “If you must,” and then waved a hand for his secretary to leave.

Outside in the hallway Q spoke quickly to Eve, “Bond's taking me out tonight. Oh dear god Eve I'm positive he overheard everything.”

She just smiled, “He did, in fact, yes.”  
“What..” Q's eyes widened, “How do you know?”  
“Stop acting like a 12 year old Q,” she sighed, “After I returned to the weaponry Bond took me aside and asked if... if what we had discussed was true; you know, that you'd had a boyfriend and that you fancied him... Oh don't gape, Q, it's quite unattractive. Anyway,” she continued, “I told him simply that yes, you'd had a boyfriend and yes you found him attractive. And then, er, you arrived,”

“And now he's asked me out!” Q nearly shouted with more panic than necessary, “Oh this is all wrong Eve... I've never done anything like this!”  
“What are you talking about Q?”  
The quartermaster ploughed on, “The only real relationships I've had with men were, firstly, Conrad, but that was pure experimentation and fancifulness- nothing real... and then Bloomsbury which was really just meaningless... and then there was Mac last year but... god... I've never-”  
Eve leant forward, speaking lowly to Q, “Wear a nice suit, buy some aftershave for the first time in your life, and just don't cock up.”  
The quartermaster sighed.  
“What do you dream of, regarding 007, Q? I mean you say you love him but what on earth do you want?”  
“Oh the things I dream of I'd never consider actually going through with,”  
“I hear you,” Eve agreed.  
Q continued, “I just... gosh... I don't know Eve- he's amazing and athletic and yes, he's everything I've ever dreamt of in that department but besides that, Eve, he's funny... and I know he's older but I wish I could.. oh fuck it,”  
“Go on,” she said, raising her eyebrows.  
“I just want him to love me. I want to be loved- emotionally though- if London boys are even capable of that,”  
“Step one is realising 007 is far from a boy,” Eve sighed,  
“True” her friend replied, “Okay- I'll take your advice but keep your phone on you tonight okay? I'll liveblog the entire thing to you.”  
And in perfect timing, as always, M's voice sounded from down the hall,  
“Are you two ladies done with your little sleepover club?”  
“Erm, yes sir, sorry,” Eve said, and then she gave a curt nod to Q and hurried back into her office.

Back in Q branch, the quartermaster made a judgement call that he could easily take the rest of the day off. Weapon-testing paperwork only had to be on M's desk by tomorrow morning so he could easily get it done after the, er, excursion-date-thing he had planned.  
One hour later had Q in the men's department of Selfridge’s. He was comfortable here; it smelt of new clothes and cooled air and receipt ink.  
The quartermaster was taking Eve's words and here to buy two things; a bottle of aftershave and a suit for the evening. He found himself glancing at a set of mannequins dressed immaculately in fresh grey and black suits; trying to imagine which one may look best on him.  
“Anything you're looking for in particular, sir?” a young female attendant asked him.  
“Oh terribly sorry, didn't see you there,” Q bumbled, and the shop assistant flushed pink as most women do at Q's endearing Oxford accent.  
He continued, “Er, well I have a date... thing... tonight and I need something, er,” he searched for the right combination of words, “subtly impressive.”  
The shop assistant smiled, “Well we'll find something that will really sweep her off her feet. Where are you taking the lucky woman?”  
“Oh, erm,” he began. That was a lot of incorrect information to be presented to him in one question. “He hasn't told me where he's taking me yet. He's kind of a, er, mysterious guy.”  
“Oh, right, of course,” the assistant trilled, “Well then, sir, in that case we'll find you something really dashing... anything caught your eye?”  
Q glanced up at the mannequins, “Hmm, I like that suit that the really ripped mannequin on the end is wearing,”  
The shop attendant chuckled, before going to collect one in Q's size.

An hour and five minutes later Q was confidently striding out of Selfridges with a Tim Lear suit and the first bottle of aftershave he'd owned that wasn't a gift from his great aunt.

On the cab ride home, Q reflected on previous dates he'd had. The first was when he was seventeen, although that was tragic for it seemed Q was the only one who realised it was a date and his suave move of placing a hand on the boy's knee had got him a sharp clip round the side of his face and a cocktail of explicitly horrid names to be called.  
His second was with Conrad Mayhem-Hughes, and oh how he missed that boy sometimes. Q still remembered his shock of ginger hair, and his smooth angular face which caused him great pain to divert his eyes from.  
Their first date, of sorts, was the evening following the book of matches incident. He'd taken the man to a small cafe on the riverbank, where they sipped cappuccinos all evening whilst watching the punters, geese and the last of their conformity pass by. Or perhaps, it was staying still and Q and Conrad Mayhem-Hughes, goodness, how he loved that long name, were moving through it all on their way to somewhere unknown.  
The evening had been beautiful. Q remembered the red trousers and white cardigan he wore, whilst Conrad was in platinum blue and forest green- god, how beautiful he made himself.  
That date however, had reacted to Q quite differently than his first, when the young Maths students scraped the toe of his leather shoe up the inside of Conrad's leg under the dinner table.  
He remembered the ginger smiling so passionately at Q, before reaching forward for his hand, and kissing it gently.  
And if that date was an iceberg then the cafe was but the tip, for both hot-blooded boys were excited in their youth, excited by each other and themselves; by their lithe white bodies which they'd finally grown into. It's funny... Q remembered then that his father had always said the journey from boy to man is the journey of finding love, but at that point the youthful Maths student felt quite differently; to fall in love with Conrad Mayhem-Hughes was to forget about manhood altogether and to be boys again for one sacred night.  
He remembered how blurry everything was on the short, bleeding journey from the riverbank to Conrad's room, and that night he and Conrad had taken each other’s virginites- but oh, what a strange word take was to use in that context- when that night was nothing less than giving. Giving pleasure and energy and new perspectives on the world. It was enlightenment and understanding to Q; it was the understanding that he'd not be young forever and that denying himself simple pleasures, such as a night in-between the sheets of another man's bed, was quite out of the question.  
He remembered his watch showing 4.03am, when he crawled from Conrad's bed and searched the floor for his garments. And as he did, he watched Conrad Mayhem-Hughes's body roll this way and that amongst the sheets, his silhouette only visible in the evening light which shone through the skylight.  
“Never cease to love me, James Williams,” he'd said quite breathlessly, and Q had stepped over and kissed the words from Conrad's mouth, before leaving into the night, a new man- clasped tight by the pleasures of youth.

The loud honking of the cab's horn had drawn Q back to the sullen reality of London traffic jams. Dear god, what a lot of waiting one did in this city.  
Even though he'd wished horribly he'd never met Conrad sometimes, he was happy that he had- and wasn't entering into this Bond situation a virgin to real love. First loves were doomed to fail, as he and Conrad inevitably did. Maybe there was hope for him and Bond.

After that he and Conrad didn't date much, it was a year of being horribly faithful to one another, which is why the summer in Bloomsbury was such a liberty to the young student. He, his cousin Oliver and his cousin's three friends lived in that precious town house; but it was such a rare occasion that the house would just be occupied by the five of them, for each boy brought home a delicious new thing each night, and loved them to hell and back.  
Q remembered the way he'd described London boys to Eve over the summer, young, playful little animals who'd have their way with you seven different ways before sunrise. God, how he loved each and every one. All younger than him, mostly boys from the Sixth Form down the road or new kid-recruits looking for some fun before being deployed. They were lithe, incoherent creatures who let Q take them in whatever way he needed that night. Q was horribly inexperienced, however, so he generally fancied the ones Oliver brought back as well. Those ones were from his university, so they were older, stronger, and generally were more than happy to ravish Q like a man once Oliver was done with them. (their rooms being next to each other helped this situation immensely) He didn't remember a single name- hell, many of them he'd not even gotten to the stage of name exchange, but oh how worthy that summer was.  
He could never do it again, no. It was a state of mind the student was in that was fuelled by irrepressible hormones, the anguish of being left by his first lover and of course, the total legality he felt it, which came with living with four absolutely ravishing boys who's personal liberation was an inspiration to Q. He remembered each one as a dear old friend from so long ago, even though it was just half a decade. His cousin Oliver was nearly identical to him; thin with a mop of brown hair but had a smile so seductive Q felt positively attracted to him on many an occasion. Oliver's gorgeous friends, Fredrick, Hugh and Daniel were sensational men with whom to converse; although they were simple and open and not quite Q's type.  
The three boys were all from LSE like Oliver; and unlike Q they'd spent the entire year totally repressing themselves (for that's how it was in London universities, one had no privacy whatsoever) and now they were so mindlessly driven by their desire that they took in the wildest of little creatures every night, and of course Q joined in- and undoubtedly he learnt far more during that summer than he did during a year's study at Oxford. But that was that; he'd learnt what he needed to and had no intention of returning to that lifestyle. 

And that was as far as Q had been regarding dates; yet here he was, making his way up the steps to his apartment to dress and shave in the hope of impressing a man, something he wasn't too familiar with, for no particular reason. Bond was terribly mysterious- for all Q knew the evening could be all work talk- guns and gadgets and nothing exciting, or it could be something Q simply did not need- a night of being used as a plaything- something he'd spent too long on the other side of, to find it thrilling at all.  
As he stood in his new suit, sipping at a glass of perry to calm his nerves, Q hoped that the night might be a pleasant combination; a little talk of work and a little talk of the two of them.  
Q took the moment to saunter around his apartment a little in his new suit; he felt terribly glamorous- with the last time he'd worn a new suit at his MI6 job interview; not a day he was eager to revisit.  
He noticed he still had fifteen minutes before Bond was to collect him, so he cheekily walked over to his stereo and hit the play button. A shiny catwalk tune pulsated from the radio, and the quartermaster took the opportunity to strut the length of his flat, sexily pouting over his shoulder and posing every now and again at nothing in particular.  
His glamorous reverie was shrilly interrupted by the Spiderman theme blaring from his phone.  
“Ugh,” Q sighed, sauntering over to the kitchen counter and picking up the device, noticing the caller ID was Eve. He quickly turned off the radio.  
“Eve, darling,” Q sighed, revisiting his glass of perry.  
“Evening Q, just wanted to check up on you, make sure you weren't curled up in your pyjamas in the corner crying over your first hope at a shag in five years,”  
“Ma-ac,” Q said in his singsong voice down the phone,  
“Okay yes,” Eve huffed, “Your first shag in five years not including my bisexual brother,”  
“Well regarding your original comment dear, I'm quite the contrary. I have on a new Tim Lear suit which makes me feel like a 2002 David Beckham, a glass of perry in my hand and Lights: Siberia on the stereo,”  
“Well well!” Eve said, clearly impressed, “Haven't we come a long way from html code and Earl Grey,”  
“Don't be a fool Eve,” Q chuckled, “I'm not transforming into some Chelsea man for Bond; I've spent five minutes living like that and I'm already feeling exhausted,”  
“Suit youself,” Eve chuckled, “Anyway, good luck tonight, text me later yeah?”  
“Of course dear,” Q sighed, and hung up the phone after bidding her goodbye.  
Q walked slowly over to the other side of the apartment where the gaping glass window let him glance down onto the road below. Surely enough, a black cab pulled up and from it stepped Bond, suave as ever onto the pavement. Q watched slightly opened mouthed as Bond adjusted his lapels, and walked into the building. 

The quartermaster suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. He felt utterly flushed suddenly, and his complexion actually was relevant now as his face was a terribly unbecoming shade of reddish pink. He stepped into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water, before uttering, “Shit, oh shit shit,” in the realisation he'd forgotten about the aftershave. Usually he wouldn't fuss be he had to remember that Eve had, much to his displeasure, seduced Bond last year on the Silva mission so he didn't reject advice from her. He darted into the bedroom and extracted the cardboard box from the garish yellow shopping bag, before sliding the glass bottle into his shaking hand and spraying it on himself.  
He stepped back into the living room as the airy ring of the bell filled the room.  
A final brush of the suit, a rub of the neck, a tweak of the glasses. Q pulled open the door,  
“Good evening 007,”  
The agent stepped forwards, placing a brief kiss on the quartermaster's cheek, “Call me James,” he smiled, before allowing Q to step into the dark stairwell with him, as they began their decent to ground floor.  
“You look charming James,” Q said honestly, as they ambled down the stairs.  
“Says the cardigan-addict in a Tim Lear suit... seriously Q, whatever possessed you?” Bond murmured in that indignant but horribly endearing manner in which he said most things.  
“I, er,” Q laughed nervously, not quite sure whether Bond was being serious or not. He decided to change the subject, “So where are you taking me Bond?” he asked, although a hundred different, more pressing questions were on his mind. There was time enough though, Q decided.  
“National Gallery of course,” Bond said in his low grumble, as the pair made their way onto the pavement where Bond hailed a cab.  
“National.... okay then.” Q smiled, “Interesting choice,”  
“Hardly,” Bond sighed, as the pair climbed into the seven-seater, “There's a Turner exhibition on tonight - and none of my other boyfriends could make it,” the agent added with a terribly suggestive sigh as the car doors locked around them and the vehicle began cruising.  
“Your seduction strategies have much to be desired,” Q said back without a beat, leaning against the end of his seat, his legs crossed and his eyes locked on Bond.  
“Well yours certainly don't, I mean, what's this- posh suit, aftershave, a smell of cider about you,”  
“Perry, actually,” Q interrupted,  
“And you know the difference between cider and perry- oh Q, when did you become such a metropolitan?”  
“Oh don't, Bond,” Q raised a hand, “I dressed up tonight, that's all there is. To be honest I've not a clue how you metropolitans live the way you do. I mean, all this chatter of social circles and art galleries and the bloody amount of money these suits cost- don't you ever find that a bit, I don't know, pretentious?”  
“Q, pretence is only the tip of the iceberg with me,” the agent sighed in his inevitably mysterious manner, “-and what about you? If you're not a metropolitan man what do you consider yourself?”  
“Well I'm not a Londoner,” Q said back with an air of reflection, “Oxfordian... I grew up in such a stoic environment, all Catholicism and regiment,”  
“You're not Catholic are you?” Bond asked quickly, furrowing his brow.  
“God no, although it's terribly easy for men like us to be one you know. Spend your nights in whosoever bed you please and spend the day in the confession box”  
That comment left the agent in silent wonder, “Q, how many... I mean- Conrad, the boy you mentioned this morning...”  
“Boyfriend from Oxford.” Q said carefully, with a shrug.  
“What was he like?” Bond asked  
“Physically? I don't know,” Q sighed, “Thin, ginger, sort of bird like... why do you care?”  
“Thin and ginger... so you're not a man of 'types' then are you?” Bond raised an eyebrow, not needing to gesture towards his build, blonde physicality.  
“Bond if you're asking why I fancied you it was because I missed you. When you don't see someone for a while the lines seem to blur between the way you felt about them and the way you may feel about them. Don't you feel?”  
“Maybe Q,” (Q noted how metropolitan men were always so terribly vague when they had to express their affection lexically)  
Q just leant up against the side again, letting his right foot dangle right by Bonds, their shoes bumping against one another as the cab cruised on.

“You still haven't answered my question Q,” Bond said with a grin,  
The younger man sighed, “I suppose I'm an academic sort of man. In Oxford the only types are artists or academics, and men who yearn to be one or the other. I'm comfortably academic though, a polymath, you know? Well read in a number of areas,”  
“Q if this is your way of telling me you're bisexual...”  
“Oh god no,” he shuddered, “Woman have never excited me James, and I feel bringing the topic of them up at a time like this obscene.”  
“Whatever you say,” James said calmly raising his hands.

“So why be metropolitan anyway?” Q said, shaking his head, “ You're a no-nonsense kind of guy and London life is horribly nonsensical. I mean, as part Scotsman you have an easy way out,”  
James exhaled deeply, as the car rolled to a halt.  
“Simply put, Q, metropolitan men get the near unobtainable pleasure of meeting an academic from time to time,” he said with a gentle flick of is eyebrows before gesturing him to exit the now open cab doors.


	3. Chapter 3

Q slid out, the light evening breeze in his hair and the monotonous smell of concrete and exhaust mingling in his nose.  
Bond emerged from the car after him, a small tug to each shirt cuff, before nodding at Q, and alighting the stone steps before him. Q walked beside him, taking in the sights of a world he was unknown to: ladies and gentlemen dressed to the nines, champagne flutes held dismissively in-between their long, thin fingers. Q and Bond didn't speak as they made their way through security and into the exhibition room.  
It was a vast, dim area with spotlights shining artistically on the pieces on the walls. The room was moderately filled and the sweet smell of champagne and aftershave filled the air.  
On the way over, Q had decided that his smelt of oranges; which was really neither one thing nor the other, really.

“What inspired you to bring me here, Bond?” Q asked, walking with the older man to the first painting that had caught his eye.  
“I just thought you might like it,” he sated placidly.  
Q was, however, engrossed in the painting. “Dido Building Cartharage” he said quietly, “It's beautiful isn't it?”  
“I suppose,” Bond murmured,  
“No but look, that huge expanse of sunlight above the river, with the city half built looming over them. You can kind of trace it all to one vanishing point, right in the sunrise. And the way it shines up the river onto the people who just seem to watching with... hope, maybe, or astonishment. Like they've finally achieved what they set out for... something bigger than themselves,” with Q's eyes locked on the painting he didn't notice that Bond's pale blue ones were instead fixated on him, his eyes behind the thin glass, his jaw shaking as he spoke.  
“It's as if incompleteness doesn't deter them... but makes them believe that they're on a journey to somewhere better,” he continued.  
Nothing but a thin gasp escaped Bond's lips, before he raised a hand, turning Q's face to his and catching his lips full on in a kiss.  
Bond felt, rather than heard, Q exhale slowly, as the quartermaster raised a hand to Bond's shoulder, and pulled himself up against the agent. They only parted for a second before Bond's lips were on Q's again, slowly licking his way into the younger man's mouth before he yielded, and allowed Bond to nearly ravish his mouth, before quickly pulling away, but only hardly so he still spoke against Bond's lips.

“I can't believe you got turned on by me talking about art, Mr Bond,” Q smirked.  
“I can't believe you talk about art so obscenely,” Bond grinned back, before leaving a brief kiss on the edge of Q's mouth, and pulling his body slightly away whilst keeping his hand firmly; and ever so slightly possessively (which Q didn't mind one bit) on the younger man's lower back.

Later that evening, whilst Q was marvelling over Chichester Canal, Bond saw an old friend, and having asked Q if he could go meet up with him, he made his way over to the other side of the room.  
Q took advantage of this situation, flipping his iPhone out of his pocket and tapping out a quick message to Eve  
at national gallry. bond's not a bad snog ~Q. 

Moneypenny replied almost instantly;  
told you suit + aftershave would work, - e

I think it might have something to do with my amazingly seductive persona darling ~Q 

nonsense. Have a good evening q. -e

Bond materialised at Q flicked his phone shut. The older man wasn't the one that left though: his eyes weren't soft blue but seemed a hard, worried grey, deep lines were struck across his forehead and his lips seemed thin and pale,  
“Q, we need to leave,” the agent swallowed, eyes darting survaciously around the room  
The quartermaster didn't question him, instead flicking into his anxious work-mode. “Where's the threat?”

“4 o'clock, dark haired man, Nicholas Francis, Caribbean espionage...” Bond breathed quickly, his hand darting to his hip, “And he's going to try and shoot me in three seconds,” he exhaled- and suddenly screams pierced the air- ladies and gentlemen hit the ground and three gunshots rung out. 

Q screamed but the only thing that came out was a sort of withered whine, as he flailed for a second- expecting his impulses to do something for him but he was rooted on the spot.  
Nicholas had now moved and had a young man's neck in the crook of his arm.

Next, Q could hardly see a thing as the agent had darted in front of him- acting as a kind of human shield, before just as quickly legging to the other side of the room.  
Q decided his priority right now should be don't get shot... had had training: he hit the floor (which was surprisingly difficulty in a well fitting suit- he had no clue how Bond did it) but after a moment his ears rung out again, the next series of gunshots resounding and then before the impulses had even reached his bran Q let out a scream, a real one, as a searing pain engulfed his right shoulder. It made his brain feel like churning cement and his eyes were awash with tears.

More gunshots rang out as grown men and women cried, and then Nicholas was on the floor with a thump. Q opened his eyes; having struggled to his feet, with his left hand clinging painfully to his shoulder. Bond stood over Nicholas, a well aimed shot to the other spy's throat- and then in an instant he was next to Q, locking his hand around the forearm of Q's still intact left arm and nearly dragging him from the room.

Q didn't remember much until he'd reached the cab- it was sensory overload- sirens ringing out, the sick smell of blood, the rushing of police cars from every direction and then of course the damning hell-like pain beneath the crimson stain on his suit shoulder.  
Inside the cab was a bit of a sanctuary though- like being in a small black shell whilst the world outside was shaking.

As soon as the doors were shut and Bond had murmured his address to the cabbie, he pulled himself over to Q, eyes running over the crimson stain.  
“Fuck...I'm sorry," Bond groaned. "I'm... okay,” he replied shakily, and then was silent, “Just let me take this off okay?” Bond said in attempted calm, as he struggled the suit jacked off Q with several winces and pained gasps from the quartermaster.  
“Sorry...” Bond murmured under his breath, before unbuttoning the shirt and sliding it just off Q's shoulder to reveal the wound.

Bond couldn't see the epicentre of the wound immediately. He used the sleeve of Q's dress shirt to absorb some of the blood.  
“Oh god- are you okay?” The cab driver exclaimed, having only just seen the happenings in the back seat. Bond sighed, “He will be once you get to my apartment!”  
The cab driver said nothing, Bond returned to tending to Q. The younger man's pain had begun to ease- significantly aided by two paracetamol Bond had stored in his top pocket. Hospital attention wasn't needed as James investigated it to be nothing more than a bullet graze which had left a sizeable gash in the quartermaster's shoulder.  
“Shit... Q...” Bond attempted to apologise but found every word stuck like a shard of metal in his throat.  
“It's...” the younger man winced as Bond continued to dab at the sore, “It's fine... I just feel a bit faint I think...”

The cab wheeled around the corner to arrive at Bond's building. It was a struggle getting Q out of the car: it seemed his entire right arm and shoulder was totally immobile, throwing him off balance and in dear need of Bond's support as a crutch.  
The agent lead him up the steps and into the building: which thankfully at 10.30pm was empty, and then over to the lifts.  
Bond felt like he had to say something, hell, he was responsible for Q getting shot- If he'd never taken him out...  
Even the light tinging of the lift made Q's head pound- he felt horribly faint and as if he were going to throw up. Bond struggled him into his bedroom, before allowing the horribly weak man to collapse onto his bed. Bond sat tentatively on the far edge of the bed as Q groggily struggled himself under James' navy blue covers, and pulled them up around his chin. 

“I know you're tired but we need to get you bandaged up,” Bond said placidly, before rummaging in his cupboard for a first aid kit.  
“Not that tired,” Q mused back. Bond was sat on the edge of the bed now, unpacking a roll of bandage and a small aluminium tube from the pack. His first-aid training wasn't terribly extensive- but having had to wrap himself up enough times in the field, he figured it couldn't be much harder performing it on someone else.  
“Okay, just sit up a bit,” Bond murmured, aiding the young man by slipping a hand under the cover to support his lower back.  
Bond was dexterous in his movements: a dab of antiseptic over the graze and then the gauze bandage looped around Q's shoulder and tied in a neat knot.

“Good job, agent,” Q grinned lightly.  
Bond shuffled back, sitting at the foot of the bed, “Well I understand it wasn't exactly an ideal first date.”  
“I know,” Q exhaled, “I was expecting at least a good hand-job before you got me into bed.”  
007 just rolled his eyes with a light chuckle at the quartermaster's inability to pass up an opportunity to make fun of him.  
“What do you need... er, tea? Bath?” Bond asked quietly. Q sighed, “A hot bath would be lovely.”

Once Q was safely immersed in the warm, bubbly water of his bathtub 10 minutes later, Bond closed the door and made his way over to his cupboard to change from his suit. Bond felt ill as he noticed that the underside of his cuffs were thoroughly stained with Q's blood.  
Five minutes later Bond was in the living room space in a pair of tartan pyjama trousers and a football shirt. He rung up Eve.

“007,” Bond could hear her disapproving tone down the phone.  
“Eve, hi, I assume everything's been taken care of at the gallery?”  
Eve sighed, “Yes Bond it has... god I can't believe he tracked you down. How's Q?”  
“Bandaged up. Alive.” Bond replied simply.  
Eve was quiet for a second, “You took him home didn't you?”  
“Yes, problem?”  
“James!” she exclaimed, “Q isn't ready for that... I mean I know he's gotten around a bit, but he cares about you and if you pressure him to shag you I swear to god I will break every bone in your stupid body!”  
“God's sake Eve!” Bond exhaled, “I took him home to bandage him up! And now he's taking a bath on his own.”  
Eve just sighed exasperatedly, “Fine James, I trust your judgement,” before hanging up. 

Bond scowled as he helped himself to a glass of whisky, before downing it faster than he'd poured it. His mind was churning: he had no clue what he was doing here with Q. His confidence was diminishing quickly.  
It was as if their entire relationship was based on unintention.  
He hadn't intended to over hear Q and Eve's conversation after he'd left the range. He recalled the snippets of conversation he'd picked up:

“Your summer crush ends here, Bond's not the kind of man you want him to be,”

“Oh god I really want him...” he'd whined in reply,

“Look, Q, Bond isn't Conrad- he's no replacement for the one boyfriend you had five years ago...

And of course Bond was intrigued. He'd harboured affection for the young quartermaster for quite some time, and the confirmation that he was interested in men, hell- interested in him was enough to surge Bond's confidence. And so he'd done it- applied his usual charm and asked the young man out- but now he was afraid. He found himself more and more attached to the man: not only in love with the way he spoke about art and life but also his bravery and humour... Bond shook his head, as if it were possible to shake away attachment to Q.  
Bond wasn't going to be held responsible for what happened to Q. It wasn't his finger on the trigger..  
“It wasn't even a bullet wound” James found himself repeating in his head. He didn't understand why he was getting so worked up about a small wound, which Q wasn't particularly fussed about himself.

The silence in the apartment was broken by the creak of the bathroom door. Q dripped his way through the small bedroom into the living room.  
Bond turned to him, “You're okay?”  
“Fine,” Q sighed gently, running the hand which wasn't holding up his towel through his wet and very deflated mop of curls, “Just tired. The last tube home's in about an hour, so...”  
“You can stay, if you want,” Bond cut in, with great intent not to make it sound in any way sexual.  
“You only have one bedroom,” Q stated, lips pursed. He didn't want to be cruel to the man, but in his state he wasn't really in the mood for a night spent physically exerting himself. He tried to speak tactically.  
“I'll take the sofa, it's fine.” Bond shrugged, “I don't mind.”  
“Okay,” Q smiled gratefully.  
“Oh Q,” Bond swallowed, “Um, if you want something to wear just take what you want from my wardrobe.  
The younger man forced a smile. He padded back into James' bedroom, where he wrapped himself in his bloodstained shirt, and slid under the covers, his wet hair against Bond's pillows.

James downed another whisky in utter self-loathing, before collecting some bedding from the laundry cabinet, and then slumping down on the sofa.  
Bond didn't sleep. He couldn't. He wanted to be with Q- not having his way with him but just sleeping. He felt sick by this relatively new feeling of actually caring about someone. He didn't like nor understand it, but there was clearly no avoiding it.  
He imagined Q now: his body rising and falling. He composed a fantasy where Q would emerge, and request Bond to lie with him and comfort him. How horribly narcissistic. Q was a grown man who could easily cope with a bullet graze and a bit of emotional trauma, Bond thought.  
He sighed quietly, before pulling the rough cover to his chin, as if somehow when he woke up he'd be the man he was comfortable being: alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys think I should write more? I'd be happy to add a couple more chapters after this one day... I'm undecided. Please let me know what you think!


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